Eggplant.place

282d

“I met people who gave me books, who handed me a thousand lives so that I might learn to live my own”

—Andrew O’Hagan, on why he supports the Scottish Book Trust Christmas appeal

https://www.heraldscotland.com/business_hq/25609921.andrew-ohagan-join-scottish-book-trusts-appeal-change-lives/

#Scottish #literature #books #reading #Christmas #charity

1y

Fossil hunter, folklorist, evangelist, stonemason, newspaper editor, social justice campaigner, & geologist, Hugh Miller (1802–1856) – born #OTD, 10 Oct – deserves to be remembered in the company of Carlyle, Ruskin, Matthew Arnold & JS Mill as one of the leading moral & social thinkers of the 19th century

A 🎂🧵

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#Scottish #literature #19thcentury #Victorian #geology #fossil #HughMiller

A faded 19th-century sepia photograph of Hugh Miller. He is standing, dressed in workman's overalls, his shirt-sleeves rolled up. He has bushy hair and large sideburns, and his left elbow is propped up on a carved gravestone. His right hand rests on a large stonemason's maul, and he holds a chisel in his left hand.

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283d

When the day-birds have settled
in their creaking trees,
the doors of the forest open
for the flitting
drift of deer
among the bright croziers
of new ferns
and the legible stars…

—Robin Robertson, “What the Horses See at Night”
published in SAILING THE FOREST: Selected Poems (Picador, 2014)

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/robin-robertson/sailing-the-forest/9781447231554

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #naturewriting #naturepoetry

What the Horses See at Night
by Robin Robertson

When the day-birds have settled
in their creaking trees,
the doors of the forest open
for the flitting
drift of deer
among the bright croziers
of new ferns
and the legible stars;
foxes stream from the earth;
a tawny owl
frisks the long meadow.
In a slink of river-light,
the mink’s face
is already slippery with yolk,
and the bay’s
tiny islands are drops
of solder
under a drogue moon.
The sea’s a heavy sleeper,
dreaming in and out with a catch
in each breath, and is not disturbed

ALT

by that plowt – the first
in a play of herring, a shoal
silvering open
the sheeted black skin of the sea.
Through the starting rain, the moon
skirrs across the sky dragging
torn shreds of cloud behind.
The fox’s call is red
and ribboned
in the snow’s white shadow.
The horses watch the sea climb
and climb and walk
towards them on the hill,
hear the vole
crying under the alder,
our children
breathing slowly in their beds.

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283d

Robert Burns & the Glenriddell Manuscripts
22 January 2026, National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh – free

Discover the incredible story of the Glenriddell Manuscripts – the largest collection of Robert Burns’s original writings in the world.

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/robert-burns-and-the-glenriddell-manuscripts-tickets-1975276014733

#Scottish #literature #RobertBurns #18thcentury #poetry #song #letters #manuscripts

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268d

goodk kkkkk unjam ingwe nches lass? start again goodk
lassw enche sking start again kings tart! again sorry…

—Edwin Morgan, “The Computer’s Second Christmas Card”
published in COLLECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 1990)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781857541885/collected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #concretepoetry #20thcentury #computing #EdwinMorgan

(written in bright green text, in a monospaced font on a black background, to emulate an old CRT computer monitor; the text is divided up into blocks of five letters each)

The Computer's Second Christmas Card
by Edwin Morgan

goodk kkkkk unjam ingwe nches lass? start again goodk
lassw enche sking start again kings tart! again sorry
goodk ingwe ncesl ooked outas thef? unmix asloo kedou
tonth effff rewri tenow goodk ingwe ncesl asloo kedou
tonth effff fffff unjam feast ofsai ntste venst efanc
utsai ntrew ritef easto fstep toeso rryan dsons orry!
start again good? yesgo odkin gwenc eslas looke dout?
doubt wrong track start again goodk ingwe ncesl asloo
kedou tonth efeas tofst ephph phphp hphph unjam phphp
repea tunja mhphp scrub carol hphph repea tscru bcaro
lstop subst itute track merry chris tmasa ndgoo dnewy
earin 1699? check digit banks orryi n1966 endme ssage

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268d

Marking the centenary of the birth of journalist, author, & native Gaelic speaker Finlay J. Macdonald (1925–1987), the BBC has commissioned John Urquhart to make Gaelic translations of a series of readings recorded by Macdonald for Radio 4

https://www.welovestornoway.com/index.php/articles/40837-celebrating-the-work-of-finlay-j-macdonald

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #Hebrides

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281d

Robert Louis Stevenson died #OTD, 3 December, in 1894, aged 44. He is buried on Mt Vaea, on the island of Upolu in Samoa 🇼🇸 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

📷 Thomas Andrew (1855–1939): Burial of Robert Louis Stevenson, 1894 / Le maliu o Tusitala i le tausaga 1894
🧵

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https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Burial_and_grave_of_Robert_Louis_Stevenson_in_Samoa,_1894.jpg

#Scottish #literature #19thcentury #Victorian #RobertLouisStevenson #Samoa #Tusitala

A black-and-white photograph, showing the burial of Robert Louis Stevenson. About thirty or forty people – a few are of European origin but most are Samoan – stand solemnly in a thickly wooded area around what must be Stevenson's coffin, draped in cloth and leaves.

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281d

Re-Tracing the Dance-Steps of the Hugboon: The Nordic Background of Orkney Folk Legends
5 December, online – free

In this seminar, Prof Terry Gunnell (University of Iceland) will explore the Nordic connections of Orkney legends & folklore

https://llc.ed.ac.uk/celtic-scottish-studies/css-seminar-series-251205

#Scottish #literature #legends #folklore #folktales #Norse #Orkney

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266d

“In story after story, epicene young men, difficult children, or wild beasts set out to shake up the stifling complacency around them”

Hector Hugh Munro (1870–1916) – Saki – was born #OTD, 18 Dec, in Myanmar. Although born in the Raj & raised in England, his parents were Scots & he considered himself to be a Scot, too. Fatema Ahmed looks at his fierce, funny, & wicked fiction

@bookstodon

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https://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/culture/43602/untameable-saki

#Scottish #literature #Saki #shortstories #humor #humour #horror #Edwardian

Edited 266d ago

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280d

“What sprang forth from Carlyle’s pen was not a dry account of the French Revolution, but a book brimming with passion and philosophy, one that offered a new style of storytelling that influenced a generation of Victorian writers.”

Thomas Carlyle (1795–1881) was born #OTD, 4 Dec. His THE FRENCH REVOLUTION established him as one of the most important social & cultural commentators of his day

🧵

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https://www.neh.gov/humanities/2009/marchapril/feature/the-voracious-pen-thomas-carlyle

#Scottish #literature #Victorian #19thcentury #history #ThomasCarlyle

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266d

Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill,
The sun looks from the hill
Helmed in his winter casket,
And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky…

—Edwin Muir, “Scotland’s Winter”
from ONE FOOT IN EDEN (Faber, 1956)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #EdwinMuir #winter

Scotland’s Winter
by Edwin Muir

Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill,
The sun looks from the hill
Helmed in his winter casket,
And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky.
The water at the mill
Sounds more hoarse and dull.
The miller’s daughter walking by
With frozen fingers soldered to her basket
Seems to be knocking
Upon a hundred leagues of floor
With her light heels, and mocking
Percy and Douglas dead,
And Bruce on his burial bed,
Where he lies white as may
With wars and leprosy,
And all the kings before
This land was kingless,
And all the singers before
This land was songless,
This land that with its dead and living waits the Judgment Day.
But they, the powerless dead,
Listening can hear no more
Than a hard tapping on the sounding floor
A little overhead
Of common heels that do not know
Whence they come or where they go
And are content
With their poor frozen life and shallow banishment.

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267d

doun riven the tint braith
mawkin scribbles owre the snaw
wee arles o sun-daith
water warstles wechty, slaw …

—Kate Armstrong, “Pantoum fer Winter”
published in A KIST O SKINKLAN THINGS (ASL, 2016)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/a-kist-o-skinlan-things/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #pantoum #Scots #Scotslanguage #winter

Kate Armstrong
Pantoum fer Winter

doun riven the tint braith
mawkin scribbles owre the snaw
wee arles o sun-daith
water warstles wechty, slaw

mawkin scribbles owre the snaw
sternies bou tae the mockrife mune
water warstles wechty, slaw
nou the taid an puddock sloum

sternies bou tae the mockrife mune
houlets hunker saft as haar
nou the taid an puddock sloum
grippit fest in dwinin lair

houlets hunker saft as haar
winter’s nieve is cauld an sterk
grippit fest in dwinin lair
aa maun learn tae dree the mirk

winter’s nieve is cauld an sterk
doun riven the tint braith
aa maun learn tae dree the mirk
wee arles o sun daith

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246d

Creative Conversations – Fidan Nazim Meikle
12 Jan, University of Glasgow, & online – free

Fidan Nazim Meikle writes stories & poems for readers of all ages. Her debut novel, My Name is Samim, inspired by the true story of a young refugee’s courageous journey to safety, is out now from Floris Books

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/creative-conversations-fidan-nazim-meikle-tickets-1977523054690

#Scottish #literature #refugees #ChildrensLiterature #KidLit

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267d

Some December midnight
Christ, lord, lie warm in our byre.
Here are stars, an ox, poverty enough.

—George Mackay Brown, “A Child’s Calendar”
published in FISHERMEN WITH PLOUGHS (Hogarth Press 1971)

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #Christmas #poem #poetry #Orkney

A Child's Calendar
George Mackay Brown

No visitors in January.
A snowman smokes a cold pipe in the yard.

They stand about like ancient women,
The February hills.
They have seen many a coming and going, the hills.

In March Moorfea is littered
With knock-kneed lambs.

Daffodils at the door in April,
Three shawled Marys.
A lark splurges in galilees of sky.

And in May
A russet stallion shoulders the hill apart.
The mares tremble.

The June bee
Bumps in the pane with a heavy bag of plunder.

Strangers swarm in July
With cameras, binoculars, bird books.

He thumped the crag in August,
A blind blue whale.

September crofts get wrecked in blond surges.
They struggle, the harvesters.
They drag loaf and ale-kirn into winter.

In October the fishmonger
Argues, pleads, threatens at the shore.

Nothing in November
But tinkers at the door, keening, with cans.

Some December midnight
Christ, lord, lie warm in our byre.
Here are stars, an ox, poverty enough.

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267d

Scots Whay Hae! Best Crime Fiction 2025 – with Callum McSorley

Alistair Braidwood is joined by award-winning crime writer Callum McSorley to discuss some of the best Scottish crime fiction of 2025, & to take a look at what’s coming in 2026

@bookstodon

https://www.scotswhayhae.com/post/that-was-the-year-that-was-the-best-of-2025-podcasts-crime-fiction

#Scottish #literature #CrimeFiction #podcast

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246d

it wis January
and a gey dreich day
the first day Ah went to the school…

—Liz Lochhead, “Kidspoem/Bairnsang”
published in A CHOOSING: The Selected Poems of Liz Lochhead (Polygon, 2017)

https://birlinn.co.uk/product/a-choosing/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #scots #language #MinorityLanguages

Kidspoem/Bairnsang
Liz Lochhead

it wis January
and a gey dreich day
the first day Ah went to the school
so my Mum happed me up in ma
good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood
birled a scarf aroon ma neck
pu’ed oan ma pixie an my pawkies
it wis that bitter
said noo ye’ll no starve
gie’d me a wee kiss and a kid-oan skelp oan the bum
and sent me aff across the playground
tae the place Ah’d learn to say
it was January
and a really dismal day
the first day I went to school
so my mother wrapped me up in my
best navy-blue top coat with the red tartan hood
twirled a scarf around my neck
pulled on my bobble-hat and mittens
it was so bitterly cold
said now you won’t freeze to death
gave me a little kiss and a pretend slap on the bottom
and sent me off across the playground
to the place I’d learn to forget to say
it wis January
and a gey dreich day
the first day Ah went to the school
so my Mum happed me up in ma
good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood
birled a scarf aroon ma neck
pu’ed oan ma pixie an ma pawkies
it wis that bitter.

Oh saying it was one thing
but when it came to writing it
in black and white
the way it had to be said
was as if you were posh, grown-up, male, English and dead.

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263d

“You are standing in a high, dim stone vault. There is a thick soundlessness, as in a recording studio, or a strongroom.”

—Kathleen Jamie visits Maeshowe chambered cairn at midwinter, for the London Review of Books, 2003

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https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v25/n24/kathleen-jamie/into-the-dark

#Scottish #literature #midwinter #solstice #Orkney #archaeology #prehistory #neolithic

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263d

He has gone down into darkness at the wrecked end of the year
And is lying, gaberlunzie, in the needled nest of frost…

—Gerry Cambridge, “Processional at the Winter Solstice”
published in Notes for Lighting a Fire (HappenStance Press 2012)

https://happenstancepress.com/index.php/shop/product/4-notes-for-lighting-a-fire-gerry-cambridge/category_pathway-12

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #midwinter #solstice

Processional at the Winter Solstice
by Gerry Cambridge

He has gone down into darkness at the wrecked end of the year
And is lying, gaberlunzie, in the needled nest of frost.
The arctic thrushes call for him although he cannot hear,

And the worm too understands him in the chilled grip of its dark,
And the ptarmigan in blizzards where no thought is worth a crumb,
And treecreepers in shivering puffs in Wellingtonias’ bark.

Shop windows glint in city lights like ice and sky, but still
No tinsel gifts can touch him, freed to silence like a stone’s;
His face is white as paper’s white in miles-high midnight chill.

He lies as plain as frost-dust where those starving thrushes call,
And his lime and ray-struck armoury could hardly be less small
On the anvil of beginnings in the sun’s gate on the wall.

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192d

Books & Looks: Val McDermid

How does a legendary crime writer find inspiration in the darkest, coldest months of the year? Blaine DeSantis chats with author Val McDermid about stepping outside her fiction comfort zone to write her new non-fiction book, WINTER

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBFKuMubX5w

#Scottish #literature #ValMcDermid

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265d

Coming up Buchanan Street, quickly, on a sharp winter evening
a young man and two girls, under the Christmas lights –
The young man carries a new guitar in his arms,
the girl on the inside carries a very young baby,
and the girl on the outside carries a chihuahua…

—Edwin Morgan, “Trio”
published in CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2020)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781784109967/centenary-selected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Glasgow #Christmas #BuchananStreet #EdwinMorgan

Trio
by Edwin Morgan

Coming up Buchanan Street, quickly, on a sharp winter evening
a young man and two girls, under the Christmas lights –
The young man carries a new guitar in his arms,
the girl on the inside carries a very young baby,
and the girl on the outside carries a chihuahua.
And the three of them are laughing, their breath rises
in a cloud of happiness, and as they pass
the boy says, “Wait till he sees this but!”
The chihuahua has a tiny Royal Stewart tartan coat like a teapot-holder,
the baby in its white shawl is all bright eyes and mouth like favours in a fresh sweet cake,
the guitar swells out under its milky plastic cover, tied at the neck with silver tinsel tape and a brisk sprig of mistletoe.
Orphean sprig! Melting baby! Warm chihuahua!
The vale of tears is powerless before you.
Whether Christ is born, or is not born, you
put paid to fate, it abdicates
under the Christmas lights.
Monsters of the year
go blank, are scattered back,
can’t bear this march of three.

– And the three have passed, vanished in the crowd
(yet not vanished, for in their arms they wind
the life of men and beasts, and music,
laughter ringing them round like a guard)
at the end of this winter’s day.

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265d

The NEW SCIENTIST Book Club is reading the science-fiction masterpiece THE PLAYER OF GAMES by Iain M. Banks. In this video, Iain’s friend & fellow author Ken MacLeod discusses everything from how the pair met as teenagers at school to Banks’s literary influences, & even his idea for a final novel set in the universe of the Culture.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7OW6A8XCgg

#Scottish #literature #sciencefiction #scifi #IainBanks #IainMBanks #TheCulture

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245d

This was the year before the year
that collapsed on us, a roof brought down by snow.
The year of riding through abandoned stations
on the riverside line that never crossed the river
but danced among warehouses, silos and factories (deceased)
beside battleships settling into red mud…

—Pippa Little, “This Was the Year”
published in OVERWINTERING (Carcanet, 2012)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781906188061/overwintering/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

This Was the Year
by Pippa Little

This was the year before the year
that collapsed on us, a roof brought down by snow.
The year of riding through abandoned stations
on the riverside line that never crossed the river
but danced among warehouses, silos and factories (deceased)
beside battleships settling into red mud.
This was the year that, too exhausted to sleep,
I boiled down the pink and ivory and blue of other women’s hands
into a single grey slab. The soap pot next the soup,
fumes of gardenia and bone.
This was the year we were always coming home.
Three steps and a garden where the splayed trike in the frost said
better to have careless love than none at all.
This was the year before the year
I found out that we are fused from lightning, our bodies
maps across which electrical storms flare
and move on. This was the year
extremely far rooftops and lit windows
seen from a plane flying its late night mission
had their glow zapped by pinball fire.
This was the year I closed the door underneath the porch light
and stood out on the first of the three front steps, listening.
Our children’s beds expecting their bodies
to come warm them like small fires
but growing cold with waiting.

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264d

“If your morals make you dreary, depend upon it they are wrong. I do not say ‘give them up,’ for they may be all you have; but conceal them like a vice, lest they should spoil the lives of better and simpler people.”

—Robert Louis Stevenson, “A Christmas Sermon”

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#Scottish #literature #19thcentury #Victorian #RobertLouisStevenson #Christmas